


with abandon like a child

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Brief Mentions of Past Suicide Ideation, Canon-Typical Behavior, Family Feels, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Future Fic, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Acceptance, Slurs, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Yevgeny's kindergarten graduation is coming up and bringing a lot of new feelings with it. This whole "healthy family" thing is a work in progress.





	with abandon like a child

**Author's Note:**

> This series is much more AU now, since the ending the show gave us, but I refuse their version of a "happy ending" that includes both of them behind bars for an undetermined amount of time. (Unless they gave a time frame? I didn't actually watch it.) I just prefer my version where everyone's in therapy and no one's in jail (except Terry) and everyone is learning to love each other and BE HAPPY! There's also an element of curtain fic to this, where it's kind of just a look at their lives trying to deal with the heaping piles of shit they've all been through and get to the other side together.

“Kindergarten graduation,” Mickey says flatly. “Why?”

“I do not know,” Svetlana admits. “Teacher was very serious.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Dad!” Yevgeny interrupts by running in and crashing into Mickey’s legs. “I’m graduating kindergarten.”

“Yeah, good job,” Mickey says sarcastically. Either the kid doesn’t catch the sarcasm or he just doesn’t care, because he beams.

“We’re gonna wear dresses called _robes_ ,” Yevgeny says. “And hats.”

“That’s so—”

“Cool,” Svetlana cuts him off. She narrows her eyes at him and he shrugs back. It’s not cool. It’s really fucking dumb. Not like they hold kids back in kindergarten. Or any grade, at this school. They don’t have the money to keep them there. Except Liam, apparently, but Mickey wouldn’t put it past Fiona to go in and kick up a shitstorm if she thought Liam should stay back and learn more. It’s weird to hear Svetlana say _cool_. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever heard her use it before. Maybe she’s finally assimilating.

“Can we have a party?” Yevgeny asks, leaning against Mickey. “Brad’s mom is getting a big castle and you can _jump_ on it and you bounce!”

“You’re having a party next week for your birthday,” Mickey points out. “So yeah, we’re having a party.”

Yevgeny frowns. “I want two parties.”

“Who do you think you are, the fucking president?” Mickey asks. “We’re having your Karate Kat party. That’s good enough.”

Yevgeny must not mind that much, because he doesn’t even pout. Sometimes Mickey thinks he’s just pushing to see how much he can get. “Amy and Gemma had Karate Kat for their birthday,” Yevgeny points out. Yeah, Mickey remembers. The party he stayed at for about ten minutes before Ian showed up. It was less than a year ago but it feels like a million years have gone by.

“So?” Mickey asks. “You said you wanted Karate Kat. You changing your mind?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you got until next week to decide, got it? I’m getting the stuff from work.”

“Okay!” Yevgeny says, holding up both hands palm-out in exasperation. He looks like a tiny, actual adult and it melts away some of Mickey’s grumpiness against his will. “I’ll decide.”

“Sure you don’t want Superman?” Mickey checks again. Ian already has all the (stolen) decorations from one of Liam’s parties back in the day.

“No!” Yevgeny whines, scrunching up his face in distaste. “Superman is Brad’s favorite.”

“He does not like Brad,” Svetlana reminds Mickey in one of those secretly-laughing-at-him voices.

“Brad’s a dick,” Yevgeny parrots a sentence Mickey knows he’s said more than once. Mickey winces.

“You can’t go around saying shit like that,” he protests.

“Why not?” Yevgeny asks.

“Kids aren’t supposed to talk like that.”

“Oh.” Yevgeny ponders that for a minute. “Like fuck?”

Svetlana groans. “Yes,” she says. “Do not say fuck.”

“Liam says fuck,” Yevgeny says, hands on hips. “He’s just a kid.”

“Well, he’s older than you,” Mickey says. “And his mom never told him not to say it.”

Yevgeny sighs. “Fine. When can I say it?”

Mickey looks at Svetlana, who rolls her eyes at him. No denying this is mostly his fault. “When you know what fuck means, you can use,” she says.

“Then I can do it now!” Yevgeny says triumphantly. “I’ll look in the dictionary.”

“Oh, will you?” Mickey asks. “You gotta know how to spell it to look it up.”

“F-U-C-K,” Yevgeny recites. “It’s on your fingers.”

“Who told you that?” Mickey asks. He knows he didn’t.

“Ian.”

He should’ve known. All that fucking communication. Literally, in this case. “Alright, then you can have Ian explain it to you,” Mickey says. “See what he has to say about that.”

Svetlana snorts. “Zhenya, go wash hands,” she orders. “You were touching cat.”

“Why do I gotta wash hands after playing with Sasha?” Yevgeny asks. He opens a cupboard so he can climb on the door and onto the counter, even though Mickey’s told him ten thousand times to just get a fucking chair. He’s already had to fix the broken cupboard twice and they’ve only been living here for four months.

“Germs,” Svetlana says, cutting off Mickey’s opening to tell Yevgeny to stop doing that.

“Sasha doesn’t have germs!”

“Everything has germs,” Mickey tells him. “Picking your nose, too, and I know you do that all the time.”

Yevgeny laughs. “So do you!”

“I do not,” Mickey shoots back, trying not to laugh too.

“I saw you!” Yevgeny insists. “Like this.” He demonstrates by sticking his wet finger up his nose and Mickey loses his battle against laughter.

“Nah, that must’ve been my twin,” Mickey says.

“You have a twin?” Yevgeny asks, wide-eyed, as Mickey picks him up off the counter and sets him on the ground. Ian comes in just in time to hear this and raises his eyebrows at Mickey.

“You have a twin?” He echoes.

Mickey gives him a kiss hello and rolls his eyes. “It’s an expression,” he says to Yevgeny. “Just a joke.”

“Weird joke,” Yevgeny remarks. He runs over to give Ian a hug. Mickey doesn’t know how he got such a hugger for a kid. It’s probably a good thing. A sign that he’s loved or some shit Debbie would say.

“Guess what, Yev?” Ian says, curling a finger in Mickey’s belt loop. “Another kid threw up on me today.”

Yevgeny bursts out laughing. “Ew!”

“Yeah, ew,” Ian agrees. “Good thing I’m used to it from you throwing up on me.”

“I don’t remember,” Yevgeny says. “I’m gonna go play.” He doesn’t even give them a chance to respond before he runs off.

“More puking?” Mickey asks. “Is that normal?”

Ian shrugs. “Happens every now and then.”

“Babies like throwing up on you,” Svetlana teases.

“I guess I wear puke-worthy shirts,” Ian laughs. Mickey tells himself to calm down. There’s no reason to think Ian’s going to get sick. He’s gotten puked on before and nothing happened. Mickey takes a deep breath and holds it while he counts to ten, then lets it out. It’s about the only coping method the therapist at the free clinic told him about that’s worth anything, and it was one the prison counselor had already told him. At least it keeps him from hyperventilating and passing out like a teenage girl again.

“You need a shower or anything?” Mickey asks.

“Nah, I showered at work,” Ian assures him, pulling him over to the kitchen table. “We need to do some party planning?”

“Karate Kat,” Svetlana says wearily.

“Unless he changes his mind again,” Mickey says, shaking his head. “He’s fucking indecisive.”

Ian laughs. “He’s six.”

“Almost seven,” Svetlana cuts in. “Growing up fast.”

“Still think kindergarten graduation is stupid,” Mickey mutters.

“Wait, kindergarten graduation?” Ian asks. “Why?”

Mickey throws his hands up. “That’s what I said!”

“Make them feel important,” Svetlana says with a shrug.

“We didn’t do that when I was a kid,” Mickey says. “Or if we did, I sure didn’t go. Would’ve been the only graduation I ever went to,” he realizes. His stomach plummets as he imagines Yevgeny dropping out of school the way he did. Especially because part of the reason he dropped out was all the stints in juvie.

“Yevgeny will graduate school,” Svetlana says severely.

“College, too,” Ian adds. Svetlana looks a little skeptical.

“Maybe,” she allows. “If he wants.”

“Yeah, he will,” Mickey agrees emphatically. He can’t imagine even going to college, let alone graduating, but he wants Yevgeny to do it. By then Mandy will have graduated and the two of them can be the best-educated Milkoviches ever.

“Well, we better get saving.” Ian’s saying it off-hand, mostly joking, but Mickey’s whole body tenses up. College is expensive. How the fuck are they going to send Yevgeny to college? Ian makes the most of all of them and he’s not even the kid’s parent.

Mickey banishes that thought immediately. Yeah, Ian _is_ Yevgeny’s parent. He loves Yevgeny and takes care of him just as much as—if not more than—Mickey. Yevgeny treats Ian the same way he treats Mickey and Svetlana.

Doesn’t mean Mickey’s happy that Ian and Svetlana will be the ones putting the most money toward their kid’s well-being, though.

Ian’s eye-balling Mickey worriedly, so Mickey’s obviously being too open about his small freak-out. But he tells himself it’s okay. Ian’s allowed to see Mickey uncomfortable. Hell, so is Svetlana. They’re his family.

“Anyway, the party,” Mickey says quickly, before Ian can make him talk about his feelings. Ian gives him a slightly dirty look but, thankfully, rolls with it.

“I’ll get the cake Saturday on my way home from work,” Ian says. “You sure it’s okay to have a kid party in the late afternoon?”

“We cannot have party without you,” Svetlana points out. “Yevgeny would not allow.”

“You’re not getting out of it,” Mickey adds. Ian tries to hide his smile, who the fuck knows why, but he’s obviously pleased at the idea that they won’t do the party without him. Mickey shakes his head. What an idiot. Of course they wouldn’t do it without Ian. He’s part of their family.

“Alright, so you’re getting the cake,” Mickey says. “I’m getting the decorations.”

“And invitations,” Svetlana adds.

“Invitations?” Mickey asks. “The fuck? Can’t the kid just tell people about it?”

Svetlana huffs. “All kids have invitations now. Should come in party pack.”

Mickey groans. “Fine. Decorations and invitations. Jesus.”

Ian’s laughing at him. Mickey flips him off and it makes Ian laugh harder. “Remember Valentine’s Day?” Ian asks. Mickey scowls. The kid had to have a fucking valentine for every kid in his class. Thirty fucking cards. And of course the kid can’t write all those names, so who got stuck doing it? Mickey did. Mickey addressed thirty heart-shaped cards and slapped a box of candy onto each one. Absolutely ridiculous. A convicted felon surrounded by hearts and those candies with weird-ass messages on them. _Be mine_. Fuck off.

“Well, if he has to give out fucking invitations he better decide soon,” Mickey says. “I was gonna buy the stuff Friday before the party but he only has next week left at school.”

“I think he’ll stick with Karate Kat,” Ian says. “He always goes back to Karate Kat.”

Svetlana makes a _hmm_ sound and they both look at her. “Dinosaurs,” she says.

“Oh, fuck, he’ll totally want dinosaurs,” Ian agrees.

“The fuck do you know?” Mickey teases. “You’re changing your mind as much as he is.”

Ian laughs. “Well, she’s right! He loves dinosaurs.”

Mickey’s starting to get that itchy feeling under his skin that means he’s getting too domestic. It makes him think, mostly against his will, _this is so gay_ , and then he starts thinking about his dad. He tells the feeling to shut up. He deserves this. He went through hell to get here. He _should_ sit here and plan his son’s birthday party with his ex-wife/baby mama and his…boyfriend. He hates that term. It makes them sound like middle-schoolers.

He thinks of Liam’s suggestion of getting married and shakes the thought away. He and Ian already have the whole rich-or-poorer, sickness-and-health thing going on. He doesn’t need a piece of paper to make him care, and not like that piece of paper ever made a difference for any married people he knows. Kev and V, maybe, but they already acted like that before they got married.

“I am going on date tonight,” Svetlana reminds them both. She looks kind of nervous about it. Mickey knows it’s the first date she’s been on since that dickweed broke up with her.

“It’ll be great,” Ian soothes. “Noah’s a great guy.” He set her up with some guy he knows from work. Privately, Mickey’s not so sure that’s a good idea, because it’ll make everything way more awkward if it doesn’t work out, but at least this guy’s South Side. He’ll be a lot harder to scare off.

“Do not let Yevgeny stay up late,” Svetlana cautions. “One week left of school and I do not want schedule interrupted.”

“Okay, okay,” Mickey says. “Don’t you gotta go get ready or some shit? We’ll deal with dinner.”

“Ugh,” Svetlana summarizes all their feelings succinctly. They’re starting to see a light at the end of the picky-eating tunnel, but coaxing Yevgeny into eating every night still isn’t easy. Mickey thinks half the reason Svetlana agreed to go out was to get away from this battle. She heads down the hall and Ian rests his chin on his hand, looking over at Mickey.

“What?” Mickey grunts. Ian’s just staring at him.

“Just missed you,” Ian says easily.

“Come on,” Mickey complains, though he can’t stop his smile. “You see me enough.”

“I could never see you enough,” Ian argues, leaning in to kiss Mickey. Mickey meets him halfway. He knows what Ian means. Maybe it’s just because they’re only about five months into getting back together, so it’s still a honeymoon thing or whatever. He’s known Ian forever, and he wakes up beside him every morning now, but Mickey still can’t get enough of him.

“You gonna be okay with a house full of kids?” Ian murmurs.

Well, okay, that’s something Mickey could do without.

He reminds himself it’s good that Ian cares about his feelings. The therapist is always saying that. It’s a new one almost every week, so Mickey doesn’t even bother learning their names anymore, but they all give the same touchy-feely bullshit advice. And if Mickey really puts thought into it, which he avoids doing as much as possible, he does like that Ian cares. Mickey went a fucking long time without anyone caring about how he’s doing. It’s kind of…nice.

“I’ll be fine,” Mickey says. He’s not really looking forward to all the screaming and bouncing around the kids will inevitably be doing, but it’ll be fine. One party. Plus, the place will be crawling with adults, too, so he can leave if he has to.

“What do you feel like fighting Yev over tonight?” Ian asks, standing up to examine the contents of the kitchen. “Give in right away and make spaghetti or shoot for something else?”

“I am never eating spaghetti again,” Mickey protests. “There’s a frozen pizza in there. He’ll eat pizza.”

“Do we still have cucumbers?” Ian asks. He’s bending down to look in the fridge and Mickey’s enjoying the view. “I’ll make salad.”

“He’ll eat cucumbers, but he won’t eat salad,” Mickey scoffs. “He’s six.”

“The salad’s for me,” Ian says, emerging from the fridge triumphantly waving a cucumber. Mickey can think of like four jokes he’d like to make right now, but Ian’s insistence on salad is making him feel weird.

“To eat with your pizza?” Mickey checks.

“Nah, I don’t need pizza.”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Ian,” he says quietly. “You’re doing it again.”

Ian looks up from the drawer he’d been searching for a knife and bites his lip when he realizes what Mickey’s saying. Since that asshole at the baseball game called him fat, Ian’s been getting weird about food. Going on extra-long runs again and googling low-calorie recipes, shit like that.

Mickey was afraid this would happen. Ian was kind of obsessed with his body before he got sick—before he got _diagnosed_ , Mickey reminds himself—so the weight gain hasn’t been easy on him. Fiona told him at one point, while Mickey was still locked up, Ian went off the meds because of it. He hasn’t made any noise about that, and it’s been a few years where he’s been medicated and as stable as possible, but it makes Mickey jittery.

“I like salad,” Ian says warningly.

“You like pizza,” Mickey counters.

Ian clenches his jaw. “Well,” he says evenly. “Salad never hurt anyone.”

Mickey licks his lips, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Ian always pushes him to talk, but Mickey’s not good at it. He doesn’t know how to point out that salad could hurt Ian if that’s all he ever eats. Well, he knows the words, obviously, but he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding like a dick. He tries not to do that to Ian.

“Dad!” Yevgeny interrupts, yelling from his bedroom. “I need help!”

Mickey blows out a breath and leaves Ian chopping the cucumber, stone-faced. When he passes the bathroom, Svetlana’s in there shaving her legs with the door open.

“Come on,” Mickey complains. He’s starting to feel like he stepped back in time to living with a billion Russian prostitutes again. Svetlana looks at him, not the least concerned, and he shakes his head at her as he closes the door.

He gets to Yevgeny’s room and puts his hands on his hips. “How the hell the cat get in here?” He demands, though Yevgeny’s open window is all the evidence he needs. “Put it back outside.”

“Sasha doesn’t want to go back outside,” Yevgeny says. “He’s playing with me.”

The cat’s on the kid’s bed, probably getting fleas everywhere or some shit like that, and is definitely not interacting in any way with Yevgeny. Mickey’s been roped into leaving food out for the thing more than once and has been scratched for his efforts. That cat is the devil.

“Get it out,” Mickey repeats. Yevgeny pouts but does as he’s told, picking the thing up and setting it gently on the windowsill and then making shooing noises until it jumps down. Mickey would’ve just tossed the thing out. It’s ugly as fuck, all skinny and gray and missing half an ear. How the fuck does an ear even just come off like that?

“Sasha’s cold,” Yevgeny complains as Mickey shuts the window. The cat’s giving him a dirty look from the other side.

“It’s June,” Mickey counters. “It’ll live. What do you need?”

Yevgeny glares at him for another second, but then relents. “My triceratops fell in the crack.”

There’s a miniscule crack between the bed and the dresser that gives Mickey nightmares. He keeps thinking the kid’s going to fall in there and suffocate or something. No one else seems worried about it, so he’s probably freaking out over nothing, as usual. He’s tried shoving the dresser closer to the bed to eliminate the problem, but something about the way the pieces of the dresser and the bedframe fit together mean it won’t move any closer. If he moves the dresser the other way, it’ll block the closet. The room here in their new house is smaller than the old one.

Mickey sticks his arm in the crack, which he’s forbidden Yevgeny to do, and immediately gets jabbed by one of the triceratops’ horns. Of fucking course. He curses and grabs the stupid thing, handing it over to the kid.

“We’re eating dinner soon,” he says. “Pizza.”

“Pizza!” The kid cheers.

“And you’re gonna eat cucumbers, too.” That doesn’t get a cheer, but Yevgeny shrugs his assent. “Your mom’s not eating with us. She’s getting dinner with a friend. She’ll say bye before she goes.”

“Is it David?” Yevgeny asks. Christ. Aren’t kids supposed to forget things that aren’t around? Doesn’t that apply to assholes?

“Nah, a different friend.”

“A boyfriend?” Yevgeny asks curiously.

“Just a friend,” Mickey says firmly. “Stop asking a million fucking questions.”

“Dad,” Yevgeny says reproachfully. “You’re not good at counting. That was just two questions.”

Counting happens to be one of the only things Mickey _is_ good at, thank you very much, but he can’t exactly tell his kid to fuck off, so he just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t get a kindergarten graduation like you, smarty pants.”

“Did you even go to school?” Yevgeny asks skeptically. This conversation is sure doing wonders for Mickey’s “low self-esteem and toxic shame.” That’s what the therapists decided he has. They gave him a whole list. _Low self-esteem. Toxic shame. Anxiety, general and social. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (severe)._ The fucking _(severe)_ part almost put Mickey over the edge. Was it really necessary to type that out and put it on his little list? He knows that part makes sense, with everything that’s happened in his life. He just feels like the parentheses are judgmental, which probably makes him another kind of crazy to add to his list.

Mickey still hasn’t told Ian they gave him an actual diagnosis. It just feels weird. Ian has a diagnosis that hangs over them every day. If Mickey tells him he has one too—or more than one; does it count as one if it’s multiple things?—it seems like it’ll just overload them.

Ian’s probably guessed most of it anyway, but saying the therapists decided it, saying it out loud, will make it real. And Mickey’s list is long. He’s way more fucked up than Ian. Ian definitely has to know that already. But what if seeing it all written out like that makes him realize he deserves better?

Mickey shakes his head to clear it. “I went to some school,” he says. “But you better go to all school, got it?”

“I like school,” Yevgeny says, and for some reason it makes Mickey’s stomach hurt a little. Yevgeny’s got to be the first Milkovich to like school. “It’s fun.”

“Good,” Mickey manages to say. “I’m gonna go work on dinner.”

“Okay, Dad.”

He takes a second in the hallway to pull himself together. If he doesn’t take a few deep breaths, Ian’ll spot the distress on him immediately. Svetlana comes out of the bathroom while Mickey’s got his hands over his eyes, trying to breathe. He snaps his eyes open when he hears her footsteps.

“What?” She asks immediately. “Something has happened?”

“No,” he mutters. “I’m just. Fucked up.”

She stares at him for a minute and he looks away. Finally, she says softly, “Is okay. You have good reason.”

“Who doesn’t?” He shoots back. “You definitely do and you’re fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I am so fine. Sleep with baseball bat by bed because I am so fine.”

“You keep a bat by your bed?” Mickey asks, floored. He’s been in her room and has never seen it. But he doesn’t actually go in there very often, and it’s not like he snoops around or anything.

“Under,” she clarifies. “In case.”

He thinks that over for a second. “Well, my room’s closer to the front door,” he points out. “If someone broke in they’d probably come for me first.” If Mickey were to break into someone’s house—which he has done, many times—he’d search every room, of course, but if someone else were to break into _Mickey’s_ house, they wouldn’t make it past his room, so he figures she’ll be fine.

She shrugs. “Maybe I know,” she explains. “In head, I know. But I think, keep bat.”

Mickey knows exactly what she’s saying, and it makes a lump rise in his throat. He doesn’t even know necessarily which part is getting to him—the fact that someone described exactly how he feels, or the fact that she has to go through it too.

“Maybe you should come with me next week to the clinic, huh?” He asks.

She pats his cheek. “I am Russian,” she reminds him. “Will drink vodka and be fine.” She starts to head down the hall and his heart clenches up.

“Svet,” he says. She glances back over her shoulder and he isn’t sure how she’s going to react to what he wants to say. If he can even tell her what he wants to say. “You don’t…you deserve to be happy. And safe.” The safe thing is something the shrinks keep throwing at him. He’s not sure he’ll ever get there himself, but he wouldn’t mind if Svetlana did.

She stares at him for a minute, and then she turns around and keeps walking without saying anything at all. Mickey shakes his head a little. They’re a bunch of fucked-up people living in this house. It’s a wonder any of them are functional at all.

Mickey takes another two deep breaths and goes back to the kitchen, where Svetlana is stealing cucumber slices as Ian cuts them.

“I’m holding a knife,” he points out mildly.

“I can see.”

Ian snorts. “Listen, Noah’s a good guy,” he says softly. “But if you don’t like him, you don’t owe him anything. I don’t think he’s good enough for you, but he saw you at the park that one day and kept begging me to set you up.”

Svetlana’s smiling a little. “Begging?” She asks.

“Oh, so annoying,” Ian assures her. “ _Ian, she was so beautiful, please let me date her, please, please, please._ ” He rolls his eyes. “I was glad you said yes to get him off my back.”

Mickey wouldn’t be inclined to believe that the guy said _beautiful_ instead of something more colorful, except he can tell Ian’s telling the truth. That makes Mickey like the guy a bit more. He was a little surprised, a few months ago, to realize that he cared if Svetlana was being treated right, and not just because she’s his kid’s mother—not that being his kid’s mother ever made a difference to anyone Mickey knows who knocks their kid’s mom around. But Mickey actually cares about Svetlana. Wonders never cease.

There’s a knock at the front door. Svetlana doesn’t get nervous, but she does give her hair a last primp or whatever the fuck it’s called. She shakes her hair around. Mickey doesn’t get why chicks do that. She just almost suffocated them all in a cloud of hairspray and then she throws her head around to make her hair move? Seems counterproductive.

“I’ll get it,” Mickey says. Svetlana laughs and heads down the hall to tell Yevgeny goodbye. Ian follows Mickey to the door.

Mickey’s met this Noah guy before, but this is a whole new context. He puts his fiercest scowl on before opening the door. Ian rolls his eyes when he notices.

“Hey, Noah!” Ian says, practically draping himself over Mickey’s back to speak first.

“Hi,” Noah says. “Hey, Mickey.” He moves like he’s going to step inside, but Mickey’s in the way. This guy is bigger than Mickey, like most guys are, really, but Mickey has plenty of practice scaring dudes who are bigger. Mickey keeps himself completely planted and doesn’t budge an inch. Noah laughs awkwardly.

“Alright if I come in?” He asks.

Mickey stares him down. Ian huffs and grabs Mickey’s arm to pull him out of the doorway. “Of course,” Ian says, warning in his tone directed at Mickey. But then he adds, “Just making sure you know what’s waiting for you if Svetlana has anything bad to say when she gets home.”

Noah falls all over himself to protest. “Ian, you know me! I’ll be a perfect gentleman!”

“Unless she doesn’t want you to be,” Mickey cuts in. He’s not going to get in the way of Svetlana getting dicked down if that’s what she wants. Mickey has no fucking clue ( _wants_ no fucking clue) how long it’s been since Svetlana got any.

Noah gapes. “Um…okay.”

“Goodbye,” Svetlana says, pushing through Ian and Mickey. “Make sure Yevgeny brushes teeth. _And_ mouthwash.”

Noah glances back at them and Mickey gets in one last glare. Dude looks like he’s going to piss himself. Mickey laughs a little to himself. Svetlana’s going to eat this guy alive.

Ian huffs as he closes the door. “Jeez, Mick, I’ve never seen him so scared.”

“Good,” Mickey says. “Pizza in the oven?’

“Yeah, I just put it in.” Silence hangs between them, their earlier conversation thick in the air. Mickey doesn’t know how to approach it. He’s not going to apologize for worrying about Ian. It’s his job. Ian brought it on himself, really. He showed up on Mickey’s doorstep with those giant eyes and splatter of freckles, tears choking his voice from being frantic over Monica coming back, and Mickey hasn’t been able to stop worrying him since.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says first. “I got mad at you for doing what I’ve been asking you to do. You were trying to talk to me and I got pissed.”

Mickey blinks. That was unexpected. “You gotta eat, Ian. Especially if you’re gonna wake up and run a hundred miles.”

Ian smiles. “I think just six tomorrow. I’ll save a hundred for Sunday.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and pulls Ian in close. He doesn’t kiss him, just hangs onto him. Sometimes he just needs to hold him. It used to make him feel weak, needing that, but now he doesn’t give a fuck if it means he’s a pussy. It makes him feel good to do it and Ian doesn’t seem to have any complaints. “I don’t know how to make you feel better about that,” he admits, face smashed against Ian’s neck.

Ian sighs. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do.” He runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair. “Just one of those things that probably won’t go away.”

“Great,” Mickey says grumpily. Half their life is shit they just have to deal with that never goes away. Mickey’s sick of it. He wants solutions.

Ian laughs a little. “Sorry.”

“Why are you hugging?” Yevgeny asks. Mickey jumps about two feet in the air. Jesus Christ, that kid walks quietly. Ian laughs at him, which Mickey thinks is pretty rude considering he has fucking PTSD. He googled it once, when he was home alone and no one could see, and read all about that hyper-vigilance shit. He definitely has that. He’d dare anyone who grew up in the house he did and then spent six years in jail _not_ to be hyper-vigilant.

“I just like hugging him,” Ian tells Yevgeny. “He gives really good hugs, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny agrees. “He didn’t hug me at all when he lived in jail.”

Mickey’s mouth goes a little dry. He didn’t think Yevgeny would remember much of that. But that was probably a stupid thing to hope for. It was only a year ago. Those memories might fade as Yevgeny grows up, but he’s still going to remember it now.

“I couldn’t,” Mickey explains. “It’s not allowed. But I wanted to.” It’s sort of a lie. Mickey wouldn’t have really known how to hug him then. It seems pathetic that _hugging_ took practice, but it did. That’s how fucked up Mickey’s life was. He didn’t even know how to hug. Mickey gives himself a little mental praise for thinking of it as his life being fucked up instead of just _him_ being fucked up. The self-praise thing always feels weird, but all of those rotating therapists say he has to do it. Work on his internal positivity or some shit like that. He tends to think they’re full of shit, but that’s one Ian pushes at him, too, so he tries to at least consider it.

“You can hug him now,” Ian offers. “Wanna get in here?”

Yevgeny laughs and slips in between them. Ian pretends to crush Yevgeny between them, and Yevgeny shrieks with laughter. At least those two think it’s funny. Mickey’s actually kind of worried about squishing the kid. Back to that whole not knowing how to hug thing, and memories of all the times his dad put his arms around Mickey to choke the shit out of him.

But it’s nice to hear the kid laugh. Nice to hear Ian laugh, too. Mickey wills his pounding heart to take it easy, wishes he could be a normal person. He focuses on their laughter and tries to ignore the voice in his head telling him everything that could go wrong.

 

“Final decision, for sure?” Mickey checks one last time as they’re getting breakfast together. “I’m buying the invitations for you to give to people. No changing your mind after this. You’re sure?”

“Dad, I’m sure!” Yevgeny insists from the table. His bedhead is out of control and Mickey thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He took a picture. Tiny little dude with his bug-eye glasses and crazy hair. If Mickey were the kind of guy to use the word _cute_ , he’d definitely use it now. “I want Mountain Lion Mac.”

Mickey wants to roll his eyes, but he resists. Mountain Lion Mac. Why do kids’ shows always have such stupid names?

“Okay,” Mickey says. “When I get home tonight with Max the Mountain Lion you better not cry about it.”

Yevgeny gives him a dirty look. “Mountain. Lion. Mac,” he emphasizes. Mickey snorts. Whatever. “Is Mountain Lion Mac a really big Sasha?”

“I guess,” Mickey agrees. “I don’t know shit about mountain lions. But I think lions are like big cats, so makes sense for the mountain lion to be the same way.”

“I love Sasha,” Yevgeny says. “Can he come inside?’

“Nope,” Mickey says cheerfully. “You want some scrambled eggs?”

“If I eat scrambled eggs, Sasha can come inside?”

“Nope,” Mickey repeats. “Yes or no? I’m cracking eggs.”

“Let me!” Yevgeny requests, rushing over. Mickey lifts him up and lets him make a huge mess all over the kitchen. He’s not in his school clothes yet, so Mickey doesn’t really care. Mickey wouldn’t really care all that much even if he _was_ in his school clothes, in all honesty. Ian comes tumbling out of the bedroom just as Mickey’s helping Yevgeny scoop up the first batch of scrambled eggs.

“I’m late!” Ian says as he rushes over to press a toothpaste kiss on Yevgeny’s head and Mickey’s ear. “Bye!”

“Ay!” Mickey calls. “C’mere.”

“No, Mick, I’m really late,” Ian insists. “I took too long in the shower.”

“ _Did_ you?” Mickey snickers. He dumps salsa over the eggs, throws in a handful of spinach leaves, and folds it up in a tortilla. “There, now it’s portable.” He can feel himself grinning and he has to admit, he’s pretty proud of himself for this idea. Ian’s smile goes a little dopey, so Mickey must look pretty cute. Ian loves calling Mickey cute. It took a bit for Mickey to warm up to it, and he’s still more lukewarm than _actual_ warm. It’s one thing to think the kid is cute, but Mickey? Ian’s got to be the only person on Earth who’s ever thought Mickey was cute.

“Thank you,” Ian says, giving Mickey a kiss on the lips this time. “Babe.”

Mickey makes a face. “The fuck?”

Ian shrugs, already backing away. “Thought I’d try it out. Think it over.”

“No,” Mickey says.

“Think it over!” Ian calls over his shoulder. The door slams a second later.

“Why did Ian call you a baby?” Yevgeny asks curiously.

“He didn’t. He called me babe,” Mickey corrects. Yevgeny raises his eyebrows and Mickey laughs. Alright, he gets why people say they look alike. “Sometimes people call their boyfriend or girlfriend _babe_ or _baby_.”

“Why?” Yevgeny asks.

“I don’t fucking know,” Mickey admits. “It’s like…it’s cutesy bullshit. People like to have a special name for each other.”

“How come?” Yevgeny asks. One thing Mickey was not prepared for with a kid—one of a million things, to be totally honest—is the need for an explanation for everything. Mickey can hardly take a shit without Yevgeny wanting to know why.

“’Cause they’re special, I guess.” Mickey shrugs. “You know, your mom calls you Zhenya or solnyshka or whatever.”

“Dad, it’s _solnyshka_ ,” Yevgeny says. Maybe he thinks what he said sounds different, but it all sounds the same to Mickey. “That means I’m special?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Like…you’re her little sol-whatever. It’s called a nickname. It’s not your name, but someone who loves you calls you that.”

Yevgeny thinks that over while he cracks more eggs. “You just call me Yevgeny,” he points out slowly, making Mickey’s stomach drop.

“Well…” Mickey swallows hard. How’s he supposed to explain this to a kid? “You know how I wasn’t good at hugging when I first got here?”

“You were good,” Yevgeny says loyally. “But you got better.”

Mickey huffs. “Thanks. But I’m like that. I’m not good at, uh, all that feelings shit.”

Yevgeny tilts his head. “We all have feelings and we gotta learn to use our words about ‘em,” he says. He must be quoting his teacher or something because he sure as hell didn’t learn that at home. “Sometimes when we feel mad we want to hit someone but we gotta use words instead.”

“Sure,” Mickey says. He doesn’t really feel qualified to agree with that statement. “But, uh, my dad didn’t like when I used my words. He wanted me to hit people.”

“That’s not nice,” Yevgeny admonishes.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “My dad isn’t very nice.” It’s almost funny how much of an understatement that is. Almost. Just saying that has Mickey’s hands shaking and he glances over his shoulder. It’s stupid—he _knows_ Terry is locked up again, he _knows that_ , but he just can’t help it.

Yevgeny chews at his lip for a second. “Dads are s’posed to be nice.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t know a whole lot of people who have experience to back that up. And if Yevgeny’s learned that…does he think Mickey fits the bill? Mickey’s not going to ask, because he’s not pathetic and also because he kind of _is_ pathetic and is afraid of the answer.

“Some dads aren’t nice,” he finally says instead. “My dad isn’t, and your mom’s wasn’t, and Ian’s isn’t.”

Yevgeny furrows his brow “That’s a lot of dads not nice.”

“There are a lot of dads not nice in the world,” Mickey tells him. “If your friends got nice dads, that’s great. They’re lucky.”

“ _You’re_ nice,” Yevgeny tells him, brow furrowed. “I’m lucky?”

Mickey gets a lump in his throat. It’s so stupid. The kid doesn’t know anything, so it’s not like Mickey can really take his word for it. Yevgeny can’t even imagine how great a dad should be. But here he is, sitting on the counter, swinging his feet and leveling Mickey with emotions.

“I try to be nice,” Mickey says, suddenly desperate to make Yevgeny understand. “I don’t always do a good job but I always try, okay?”

“Okay,” Yevgeny says with a shrug. He’s obviously not feeling the gravity of the situation. “Dad, they’re turning black.”

“Shit!” Mickey forgot about the eggs. He pulls the pan off the burner and looks down into the charred mess of eggs on the bottom. “I burnt the eggs.” He sighs and starts scraping the ash into the garbage. Mandy was always in charge of making eggs. “How many we got left?”

“Four,” Yevgeny says.

“Alright, crack ‘em all in there.”

“Awesome!” Yevgeny loves cracking eggs. Most kids probably do, but it’s not like Mickey knows anything about other kids.

“You want yours in a burrito like Ian?” Mickey asks.

“Yes but _no_ sauce,” Yevgeny says.

“You want spinach in there?”

“Yeah, because I’m a omnivore,” Yevgeny says. “I eat meat and plants. Just like Troodon.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I’ll take your word for it.” Not that the kid actually eats that much meat. Ian’s convinced it’s a texture issue.

Mickey knows most parents probably think this, but he thinks Yevgeny is pretty smart. He was behind on reading and writing at first, but it seems like it was mostly the whole couldn’t-see-anything part that was tripping him up. Now that he got glasses, he’s started reading books to Mickey at night instead of the other way around. It takes him about an hour to read two pages, but whatever, he’s doing it. And he knows everything about dinosaurs. He never shuts up about them. Mickey’s still suspicious he’s choosing the mountain lion thing over a dinosaur party. Seems like he’s going to waste his money on the mountain lion and Yevgeny’s going to want dinosaurs. Mickey doesn’t know where the kid got his smarts from. He sure as hell didn’t get it from Mickey. _That’s not positive_ , he reminds himself. But he doesn’t really think it’s negative, either. Mickey isn’t smart. That’s just a fact. It’s neutral.

“Where’s your mom?” Mickey asks. “She can have the other eggs.”

“I don’t know,” Yevgeny says. Mickey puts him down and hands him his plate to take to the table. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome.” Mickey’s working to match his six-year-old’s politeness. It’s hard. “Svet!” Mickey yells. “Want eggs?”

He doesn’t get an answer. He’s about to tell Yevgeny to see where she is—she can’t still be in bed—but Yevgeny’s shoving his burrito in his face like it’s going to disappear if he takes his eyes off it, so Mickey shakes his head and does it himself.

“Slow down,” he cautions over his shoulder. “You’re gonna choke.”

Yevgeny makes an indecipherable sound that would probably be a denial if he could form words around the mass of eggs in his mouth. Mickey knocks on Svetlana’s bedroom door. Nothing.

“Svet?”

He doesn’t get an answer. His heart’s starting to pound, brain filling up with possibilities. He takes a deep breath and pushes her door open. The room is empty. No Svetlana. She didn’t say she was being gone last night. She hasn’t been on another date with Noah since that first one last week. She did go out and had dinner with some of her friends from work last night. Did Mickey go to bed without realizing she wasn’t home?

He feels like total shit.

He pats himself down, looking for his phone, but he doesn’t have it on him. He checks the bedroom. Nope. Must be in the kitchen. He finds Yevgeny playing with it.

“Ay, what the fuck?” Mickey says. “You know how to work that thing?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says, the _duh_ hanging just below the surface. “You don’t even have a password.”

“Am I supposed to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I got any texts?” Mickey asks.

“I don’t know,” Yevgeny repeats. “I’m just playing games.”

“I don’t have any games,” Mickey says suspiciously.

“I got one,” Yevgeny says. “See?”

“What the fuck!” Mickey takes his phone back. Yevgeny’s playing some game with a worm trying to eat an apple.

“It was free!” Yevgeny insists.

“How do you know?” Mickey asks.

“It said F-R-E-E. That spells free.”

“Who taught you that?”

Yevgeny shrugs. “I don’t know. I just read it!”

Mickey laughs a little despite himself. “Alright, fine. But you don’t got time for games before school. Go brush your teeth.”

“I don’t wanna.”

Mickey shrugs. Like he fucking cares. “Fine, don’t. Go get dressed and we’ll go. I guess I’m taking you to school today.” It’ll make him a little late for work, but Tina’s not going to give him shit. Since he lost his shit and passed out at work, she acts like he’s made of glass. He fucking hates it, but at least it’ll come in handy today. Plus, Mickey agreed to work a double shift today because that burnout Todd called in sick again, so she can cut him some slack. He already made her feel kind of guilty because he told her his double means Yevgeny has to stay at the after-school program until Ian gets off work and can pick him up. It actually means Yevgeny’s going to hang out with Liam and Fiona until Ian gets off work to pick him up, but whatever.

“Where’s Mama?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey admits. “I’m gonna text her.”

“Can I help?” Yevgeny requests. Mickey blows out a breath. Yevgeny loves texting, but it takes forever with Mickey telling him which letters to press. They’ve only got ten minutes to leave before they’re officially late.

“We don’t…” Mickey stops. Yevgeny’s already reaching out a hand for the phone, and he’s grinning in anticipation. Mickey bites his lip. It’s the last week of the school year and the kid’s in fucking kindergarten. Being late doesn’t really matter. “Alright, come here.”

Yevgeny cheers and scrambles into Mickey’s lap. “Which letters?”

“W-H-E-R-E,” Mickey starts, then has to stop and wait for Yevgeny to sound the word out so he knows what they’re typing. “Space. R. Space. U.”

“R and U aren’t words!” Yevgeny points out.

“When you’re texting you can use letters,” Mickey says. “Get with the times.”

“What’s that mean?” Yevgeny asks, confused.

“Never mind,” Mickey says, shaking his head. “It’s a joke. Go get dressed.”

“I want to read Mama’s answer!” Yevgeny calls as he runs down the hall.

But Svetlana doesn’t answer by the time Mickey drops Yevgeny off at school, and luckily Yevgeny’s preoccupied enough with his friends that he forgets about it. Mickey doesn’t, though. He bites his thumbnail ragged by the time he gets to his morning break at work. He tries calling Svetlana and she doesn’t answer. He dials Ian.

“Hey,” Ian says, sounding all surprised and cheerful. “Babe.”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Really?”

“Well, what do you want me to call you? Dear? Honey? Boo bear?”

“Fuck that,” Mickey scoffs. He must be predictable, because Ian’s cracking up like he knew exactly how Mickey was going to react. “Why can’t you just call me my fucking name?”

“I just want everyone to know you’re my little sugarplum.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey mutters, making Ian laugh again. “Svetlana tell you she was gonna be gone last night?”

“No,” Ian says. “Was she not there? Shit, I didn’t even notice.”

“I didn’t either,” Mickey admits. “Wasn’t home this morning and she’s not answering.”

“Hey, Mick, it’s okay,” Ian soothes, instantly aware of Mickey freaking out. “She was probably just too drunk to drive and stayed with one of her friends and then went straight to work from there this morning.”

Mickey chews at his lip. “You ever know her to think she’s too drunk to drive?”

Ian’s quiet for a second. “No,” he agrees softly.

Mickey swallows hard. “I’m freaking out.” He doesn’t really need to say it—Ian definitely already knows—but he’s working on talking things through.

“I know. It’s gonna be fine, though.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ian sighs. “No, I guess I don’t. Sorry I can’t make you feel better.” His voice is tight and Mickey knows he fucked up. As usual. He closes his eyes for a second and tries to pull some words together.

“Hey. You do,” he tries. “Talking to you does make me feel better.”

Ian just breathes for a second and Mickey focuses on the sound. “I’m glad,” Ian finally says. “I’m kinda freaking out now, too. But talking to you makes me feel better too.”

“Fucking stupid I can’t just say shit like that,” Mickey mumbles. “I mean, you already know how much I…um.” He has to glance over both shoulders to make sure no one’s in earshot, but he makes himself finish the thought. “Love you.”

“I know, Mick,” Ian says softly. Mickey can hear him smiling. “I love you, too.”

Mickey’s throat is all tight and he wonders when the hell he’s ever going to stop crying when Ian says that. Ian’s started saying it like once a week—why can’t Mickey just fucking get used to it? It’s not like it was ever a secret or anything. But for some reason it blindsides Mickey every time.

“I gotta get back to work,” Mickey says roughly.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

Mickey balls his free hand into a fist. “Bye…babe.” He hangs up before Ian can react, which is probably a pussy move, but whatever. Not like he’s going to start saying it all the time, but he can give Ian more than scraps of affection. Or he can try, at least.

 

When Mickey gets home from work, he can hear Ian and Yevgeny talking. Ian’s voice sounds really serious, and Mickey takes a second to decide if he wants to ignore the situation or not. He decides ignoring what’s most likely a discipline scenario is a huge dick move and Ian already had to deal with a bunch of shit at work today. He sighs and heads down the hall.

“—hurt his feelings,” Yevgeny’s saying.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “And it was really hard for your dad. But he’s working on it.”

Mickey flattens himself against the wall, out of sight, mouth dry. They’re talking about him. Probably because of Mickey’s conversation with Yevgeny at breakfast. He curses himself. He should’ve just let it lie.

“But why?” Yevgeny asks. “Why was his dad so mean?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says softly. “Some people just aren’t nice. And his dad was probably mean, too. A lot of times if your parents are mean to you, it makes you mean, too.”

“But Dad said _your_ dad was mean and you’re not mean,” Yevgeny points out. “And Mama, too. And Dad’s not mean. His dad was mean but he’s not.” He pauses. “Sometimes he’s mean,” he amends, and Mickey wants to slam his head against the wall right now.

“When?” Ian asks.

“He never lets me bring Sasha inside,” Yevgeny points out. “And he puts up his middle finger and Ms. Thompson says that’s not nice.” Mickey rolls his eyes at that. Ms. Thompson is a bitch who still can’t say Yevgeny’s name right, so he doesn’t really care what she thinks.

Ian doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Yev, the mean stuff that happened to your dad wasn’t like that. It was really bad. A lot of people hurt him. They hit him.”

“Who did?” Yevgeny demands. “Why did they hit him?”

Ian sighs. “Some people think that hitting little boys will make them tougher. And some people think hitting kids is the best way to make them do what they’re told.”

“That isn’t nice!” Yevgeny’s in tears now and Mickey can practically hear Ian’s wince. “Don’t hit my dad!”

“Hey,” Mickey says, coming into the doorway. He can’t stand another second of hearing Ian try to explain Mickey’s shitty life to a kid, and he’s never been very good at listening to Yevgeny cry. He used to just leave when it happened, but he’s doing his best to actually work to fix things when he can.

“Dad!” Yevgeny yells, jumping up and rushing at him. Mickey catches him and Yevgeny clings. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, kid,” Mickey promises, rubbing his son’s back. Over Yevgeny’s head, Ian mouths _sorry_. Mickey shakes his head. It’s not Ian’s fault. They’re going to have to deal with this shit a lot until Yevgeny’s old enough to really understand.

Yevgeny pushes back to look at Mickey. “Ian said someone hit you.”

Mickey puffs out a breath. “Not lately. Not anymore. People _used_ to hit me.”

“Who did?” Yevgeny asks, tracing a finger down the scar on Mickey’s cheek.

“Well,” Mickey deliberates, unsure how much he should say. “My dad used to hit me. My mom, too, sometimes. And my brothers and my uncles. And when I was in prison a lot of the guys in there hit me.” The list would probably be shorter if he told the kid who _didn’t_ hit him.

Yevgeny’s got fat teardrops stuck in his eyelashes that are probably going to smudge his glasses. “Hitting is bad.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Unless you’re fighting back against someone who’s hurting you or hurting your family. Sometimes you gotta fight. But hitting someone smaller than you is bad.”

“Grown-ups can’t hit kids,” Yevgeny says. “You hurt my arm once.”

Mickey wants to leave. Like he needs a reminder—like he doesn’t close his eyes at night and see the kid’s giant, terrified eyes.

“I’m sorry I did that,” Mickey manages to say.

“He didn’t mean to,” Ian adds.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Yevgeny assures him. “Sometimes our feelings get too big and we hit people. It’s not the right thing to do but we can forgive our friends if they say sorry.”

Christ, school is touchy-feely these days. Mickey doesn’t remember getting lessons like that when he was a kid.

“You don’t have to forgive people who hurt you,” Mickey tells him. “If you want to be mad at me for hurting your arm forever, you get to be.”

“I’m not,” Yevgeny says.

“You know he won’t do it again,” Ian says. Mickey’s trying to make sure Yevgeny knows he doesn’t _have_ to give Mickey another shot. He doesn’t want the kid going through life thinking any douchebag who beats on him and then apologizes is someone he should be hanging around with, even if that’s Mickey himself. But Ian’s not really good at listening to Mickey put himself down, so they’re caught in a weird loop here.

“Yeah, he uses his words now,” Yevgeny agrees. Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck to add to this conversation. Luckily, his phone starts ringing and saves him. He glances at the display and squints, confused.

“It’s Carl,” he tells Ian, mystified as to why Ian’s brother would be calling Mickey instead of Ian. “Hey,” he answers.

“Hey, man…” Carl sounds weird. Apologetic, maybe, but Mickey’s not sure he’s ever heard Carl apologize for anything to compare. “Um, Tony just called me.”

“Tony?” Mickey asks.

“The cop,” Carl clarifies, making Mickey’s heart pound. Cops will probably always do that to him. “He said he’s got Svetlana…uh, in lockup.”

Mickey blinks. “What?”

“Yeah, he just got on shift and she’s there. He couldn’t really tell me anything ‘cause of confidentiality or whatever, but she’s there. He wanted to give us a head’s up.”

“Fuck. Okay, thanks.” Mickey hangs up and looks over at Ian. “Uh…” He doesn’t want Yevgeny to hear. “Ruski’s in the slammer.”

“ _What_?” Ian screeches.

“What’s the slammer?” Yevgeny asks. Of course.

“I’m gonna go down there, I guess,” Mickey says. He’s kind of dazed. Svetlana’s totally legit these days—he doesn’t know what she’d get arrested for. She’s even got her green card and everything. “You stay here with the kid.”

“Mickey,” Ian protests. “You can’t go alone.”

“What’s ruski?” Yevgeny persists.

“What else am I supposed to do?” Mickey snaps. “Can’t just leave her there, and we sure as shit ain’t taking him.”

“Let’s take Yev back to Fiona and I’ll go with you,” Ian says. “Yev, you wanna go hang out with Fiona and Liam again?”

“Yeah!” Yevgeny says. “Where are you going?”

They can’t say they’re getting Svetlana—he’ll want to come. “We’re going to do some grown-up stuff,” Ian says. He meets Mickey’s eyes, obviously hoping Yevgeny will accept that answer.

“What grown-up stuff?” Yevgeny asks.

“You can take Sasha if you want,” Mickey blurts out desperately.

“Even in the car?” Yevgeny asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Get your shoes on and grab the cat.”

“Okay, Dad!” Yevgeny runs for his closet and ties his shoes in record time. Sure, _now_ he gets it. Bribing the kid to get his attention elsewhere probably isn’t _great_ parenting, but Mickey doesn’t have time to deal with it all.

Ian texts Fiona on the way over, so she’s waiting outside when they pull up. “Hey, buddy!” She looks genuinely excited to hang out with Yevgeny some more. Mickey wonders if she misses having all her siblings around all the time. Seems like she’d be relieved they’re finally all growing up and wiping their own asses and leaving her the hell alone, but the Gallaghers have always been weird and obsessed with each other.

“Fiona, look!” Yev yells as Fiona opens the door for him. “Dad let me bring Sasha! He’s a cat.”

“You have a cat?” Fiona asks, more to Ian and Mickey than Yevgeny.

“He’s a stray,” Ian explains. “I don’t know how long we’ll be.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fiona assures them. “Make sure Sv—she’s okay.” She cuts her eyes over to the kid and puts on a big happy face. “Alright, Yev, let’s go inside! Liam’s waiting for us. And I was just thinking we could use some cookies, huh?”

“I love cookies!” Yevgeny cheers. “Did you know my birthday is soon?”

“Of course, I’m coming to your party.” They go inside and Mickey breathes out harshly.

“Why the fuck is she in jail?” He’s muttering to himself more than to Ian as they pull out. Ian puts a hand on Mickey’s leg.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“What if we gotta bail her out?” Mickey asks. “Not like we’re rolling in dough.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ian repeats. “Stay calm.”

It’s good that Ian’s driving. He’s a better driver than Mickey in general, but especially when Mickey’s hands are shaking. Traffic is a nightmare, and it doesn’t help Mickey’s anxiety any. Mickey got up the nerve once to ask one of the therapists if all the anxiety shit is the same thing as the PTSD. After all, he’s really only jumpy because he’s ready for someone to try to choke him out at any moment. The lady said it was all likely tied together, but she also said Mickey seems like he probably would’ve had some social anxiety anyway. Fucking great. He would’ve been crazy even if he didn’t have the fucking worst family ever.

Mickey’s already sweating when they get to the police station, and it’s only going to get worse. Ian squeezes Mickey’s shoulder before they go in, but he keeps his hands to himself. Mickey’s grateful. He can’t handle worrying about people watching them and keeping an eye on every cop around them at the same time.

“Uh, I’m looking for Svetlana…” Mickey trails off. “Milkovich?” He can’t believe he doesn’t know Svetlana’s last name. What the fuck. He has no idea if she changed her name when they got married or if she changed it back after the divorce. It’s hard to believe they were ever married—if feels like that was a million years ago.

“Milkovich,” the lady mutters, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Yeah, she’s free to go. They’re not pressing charges.”

“Who isn’t?” Mickey asks. The lady isn’t listening. She looks over her shoulder and calls to someone,

“Bring Milkovich out.”

That’s got to be a familiar sentence around here. Mickey picks at the skin around his fingernails while they wait for Svetlana to come out. She’s got that haughty look on her face she used to wear all the time, the one Mickey knows now means she’s not at all comfortable with what’s going on.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again,” the lady behind the desk says snidely. Mickey flips her off as they walk out. It’s all feeling very surreal and familiar. No one says anything until they get into the car.

“What the fuck?” Mickey asks as soon as they all close their doors.

“Where is Zhenya?” She asks instead of answering him. In her defense, he wasn’t exactly specific with his question.

“Fiona’s,” Ian supplies, twisting around to look at her. “What happened? Why didn’t you call?”

“I got in bar fight,” Svetlana says, arms crossed over her chest.

“You _what_?” Ian asks. “With who? Why? Where?”

“I got in bar fight,” Svetlana repeats flatly. “With bitches from work.”

There’s a pause. “You fought the bitches from work or you fought _with_ the bitches from work?” Mickey asks, breathing slightly easier now that they’re out of the jail parking lot.

“Fought bitches from work.” Svetlana’s lip curls. “They had too much to say about dancers at bar.”

Mickey grits his teeth. Ian’s all the way turned around in his seat, looking at Svetlana, and Mickey snaps out, kind of panicky, “Buckle your fucking seatbelt, man.” Ian should’ve driven again. Mickey’s breathing so hard he’s probably going to pass out again if he doesn’t get it together. That was the first time he’s been back in a jail since he got out. Nice to see all that therapy’s doing jack shit.

“Svetlana, don’t you think that might cause problems at work?” Ian asks, all logical like Svetlana can go back in time and change it or something.

Svetlana shrugs. “Will find out tomorrow, I guess.”

“What, they were talking shit about the strippers and you fucking lost your shit?” Mickey demands. “Ian, buckle the fuck up.” Mickey didn’t exactly learn to drive with safety in mind when he was twelve and manning the getaway van on jobs with Terry. Seeing Ian unbuckled is giving him fear sweats. Not like he can tell the difference between those fear sweats and all the anxiety sweat from being surrounded by cops and guards in the prison, plus all the anxiety sweat from not knowing where Svetlana was all day. Mickey’s going to need like four showers today.

“They have no room to judge,” Svetlana says haughtily, chin in the air. “They take pole dance class at gym but talk shit about girls at bar. Just because they are shit at dancing and can’t get paid.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. “But you had to get in a bar fight bad enough for the cops to lock you up overnight for it?”

Svetlana raises her eyebrows. “Did not have to,” she points out. “Wanted to.”

Ian blows out a breath, finally clicking the seatbelt into place and reducing Mickey’s panic by about twenty percent. “Lana, I don’t get it,” he says.

“They think they are better,” Svetlana says. “I showed them truth.”

“Yeah, great fucking job,” Mickey says sarcastically. “You’re probably going to get fucking fired. Maybe those strippers will be grateful you stood up for them and give you a job there.”

“Maybe they will,” she shoots back angrily. “Nothing wrong with dancing. You were pimp, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, you should definitely base your decisions on what I was fucking doing,” Mickey mutters, clenching his hands around the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “I went to fucking _prison_ for six years, you up for that next? Sure, you go to the slammer this time and I’ll keep the kid. That’ll be real fucking great.”

“Guys,” Ian interrupts before Svetlana can weigh in on that scenario. “Let’s all calm down, okay? What’s important is Lana is safe. We’ll go home and figure it out. Yev can stay with Fiona and Liam for a while and we can all calm down and talk.”

“Fine,” Mickey spits. Svetlana doesn’t even respond. The second they pull up to the house, she’s out of the car. She never did buckle up. Mickey shakes his head, muttering curses under his breath as he throws the car in park and turns off the ignition. Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s thigh and stops him from getting out.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

“Not really,” Mickey says. “How they fuck am I supposed to explain to the kid his mom spent the night in jail?”

“Well, I don’t think we need to tell him that,” Ian points out. “And anyway, that’s not what I meant. I meant are you _okay_. We were just surrounded by cops and you’ve been freaking out about where Svetlana was all day. Are you okay?”

“Jesus, Ian, I’m fine,” Mickey snaps, completely contradicting his words with how fast his breathing is. Ian presses his lips together and Mickey makes himself hold his breath for a ten-count. “Sorry,” he adds shortly. “I’m…”

“I know,” Ian says softly. “But you don’t need to take it out on me.”

“Sorry,” Mickey says again, feeling shitty. “I just don’t know why she’d do something so fucking stupid.”

“We’ve both been in a bunch of bar fights,” Ian points out.

“Not since I got out,” Mickey counters. “Not after the kid.”

Ian could point out their most memorable bar fight was the day the kid got baptized or christened or whatever the fuck it is, but Ian’s a good person and doesn’t. He just shrugs. “I think something’s up with her.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. It’s not even sarcastic. He’s exhausted from being so strung out all day. And he’s worried.

“She’s probably not going to want to talk about it,” Ian adds.

“Definitely not,” Mickey agrees.

Ian smirks. “Now you’re just agreeing with everything I’m saying. Want to blow me right now?”

Mickey snorts and shoves him into the car door. But then he reaches for Ian’s belt, because it’s not like he’s going to turn down that offer, parking lot and neighbors be damned.

“No, stop, I was kidding,” Ian says, laughing and batting Mickey’s hands away.

“Yeah, but now I’m thinking about it,” Mickey points out.

“I don’t think now’s the best time for that,” Ian says. He’s got that delicate voice going on, like he has to be careful with Mickey. Now Mickey knows why Ian got so pissed at him during their first go round with bipolar. That delicate voice fucking sucks.

“Well, if you’re waiting for me to not be fucking crazy, you’re never getting blown again. That what you want? Huh? Gonna stick around and wait for your dick to just shrivel up from not getting anything?” Mickey knows he’s being really weird about this. He’s way too mad about Ian turning him down. He isn’t actually even mad about Ian turning him down. He’s just kind of melting down, and he’s always at his angriest when he’s the most scared.

Luckily, Ian’s known him for a long fucking time. And luckily, Ian’s been through like a million tips to therapy and handles his emotions way better than Mickey does. Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s face and makes Mickey look at him.

“Hey,” Ian murmurs. “Breathe, Mick.”

Mickey’s breaths are all shaky and fast and he can see black spots in his vision now. He’s going to fucking pass out again, and Ian’s going to lose his shit again, and this day is going to get even worse.

“Mickey,” Ian says, firmer this time. “Look at me and take a fucking deep breath.”

Tenderness doesn’t work on Mickey when he gets like this. But barking orders at him does. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a second, letting Ian squeeze his trembling hands. He does it twice more before he feels calm enough to nod.

“Sorry,” he says for about the hundredth time today. “I’m sorry.”

“Talk to me,” Ian says. He puts his hand back on Mickey’s face, stroking his thumb across Mickey’s cheek. Mickey closes his eyes. He doesn’t deserve Ian being nice to him after that whole blowup. Honestly, on the scale of Mickey’s blowups, that’s nothing. He still feels like shit about it, and about the fact that he could probably list twenty worse blowups without even having to think too hard. But he knows Ian’s going to be nice to him anyway, and it makes him want to fucking cry. The least he can do is tell Ian what’s going on.

“The jail,” he starts. “It’s—I don’t like—” He stops and takes another deep breath, eyes still closed. He’s not going to be able to say any of this if he looks at Ian while he tries. His voice is shaking. He used to be able to just bury all this shit, pretend nothing happened and he was fine, and if it came up he could act like it didn’t matter because he’d swallowed it down so far. But all this fucking therapy has all the shit rising to the top of his throat and it leaves him choking and crying at the drop of a hat. “Thought Svet was…I don’t know. Dead, probably. I didn’t know how the fuck I was going to handle that. And then the jail. It freaks me the fuck out. Being in the jail, seeing all those cops. Like they’re going to realize I got out and put me back in. And the cops all knew—I mean, that lady at the prison. She knew I was a Milkovich. What if she—what if my—Terry could’ve been in there. I don’t fucking know where he is. He could’ve been there and they could’ve put me in with him and I…” Mickey’s voice is shaking too much to keep going. He focuses on Ian’s thumb moving across his cheek and tries to breathe.

“Mick,” Ian whispers. “Hey. You haven’t done anything to go back in. They let you out and they can’t just put you back in.”

“Hawkins knows I got a piece,” Mickey points out.

“He’s not going to tell anyone,” Ian reminds him. “He gets it.”

“It’s not just…” Mickey stops again. If he says this next part, the part that’s the real root of the problem today, Ian’s going to freak out. This is something Mickey hasn’t told him—hasn’t told anyone, except one of the therapists. He told Ian before he didn’t want Ian thinking about this shit. But Mickey doesn’t know if he can hold it in anymore. He pulls back a little, unable to say this if Ian’s touching him. “Ian, I got jumped while I was inside. Like…all the fucking time. I don’t know if it was my dad’s guys or if they all just hated me ‘cause I’m a fag, but.” Mickey swallows hard. “And there was this guard. He—well, I don’t know. He told ‘em where I’d be sometimes. And he, uh. I mean, he knocked me around a few times. I could fight back with the other guys, but if I fought back with him…” He’s breathing hard and fast again.

Ian has his jaw clenched hard, like he’s trying not to blow up. Mickey knows it’s not at him. Ian would be pissed to hear about this for anybody, because Ian’s a good person. But he’s especially livid to hear it about Mickey. Ian’s always had a blind spot for Mickey.

“A guard jumped you?” Ian asks quietly.

“Not as often as the other guys,” Mickey says, looking at his hands. “And I know I should’ve just fought back and taken whatever extra time they gave me instead of being a pussy and just taking it, but—”

“Mickey, shut the _fuck_ up,” Ian cuts him off. Then he takes a deep breath. “No, sorry, no, no, I’m not mad at you. I’m pissed as fuck that it happened to you. I can’t—” He takes another deep breath. Then he puts his hands back on Mickey’s face and presses their foreheads together. “I’m glad you got out as soon as you could. You’re not a pussy for thinking long-term. Just proves how smart you are.”

Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, real smart.”

Ian pulls back, looking surprised. “Mick, you’re one of the smartest guys I know.”

Mickey laughs out loud. “What the fuck you talking about? I didn’t even finish high school.”

“So?” Ian asks. “That’s not because you’re not smart. Mickey, you always find a way for things to work. And you’re the best at math of anyone I know. Lip knows the equations and shit, but you learn it so fast. Remember when you helped me with all those geometry theorems? All I had to do was show you the equation and you picked it up like it was nothing.”

“Ian, I can’t…” Mickey scrubs his face with his hands. “This day is too much. I can’t…”

“Okay,” Ian says. He rubs his hands up and down Mickey’s arms. “Hey, okay. I’m sorry. I know today’s been hell. I’ll build you up about that another day.” It manages to make Mickey laugh a little, even though he’s crying. Ian kisses him once before he starts speaking again, voice soft and choked with tears. “Mickey, I wish I could change everything that happened. I wish I could go back in time and stop everyone from hurting you. _Everyone_ ,” he emphasizes, so Mickey knows he means Terry, too. “But I can’t. All I can do is remind you we’re here _now_. And no one’s going to hurt you anymore.”

“Ian, it doesn’t matter what’s real. In my head, it just…” Mickey blows out a harsh breath. “I got, um. I got PTSD.”

Ian huffs. “Yeah, you do.”

“No, Ian, I really do. Those shrinks at the clinic told me. PTSD and anxiety and, uh…uh, I don’t know, some self-esteem shit and like, they said toxic shame or whatever. I’m just—I’m a fucking mess, Ian. That one lady, the real ugly horse-teeth one? She said the PTSD’s never going away. She said it’s been so long I’ll never get over it. I’m—my whole fucking brain is different. She guessed, anyway. She said they’d have to do a brain scan to see for real and no fucking way that’s happening.”

Ian doesn’t say anything for a second. He leans in and kisses Mickey, a soft little thing Mickey can hardly feel. “I know, Mickey. I mean, I didn’t know she told you all that. But I already knew you had PTSD. There’s no fucking way you wouldn’t, with all the shit that happened to you.”

Mickey’s holding onto Ian like Ian’s going to just get out and walk away right now. “They can’t fix me. It’s never going away.”

Ian sighs. “Mickey, I’m bipolar. That’s never going away, either.”

“Yeah, but don’t want you someone who isn’t crazy? Like to balance you out?”

“Fuck you,” Ian says with a little laugh. “No. You’re not crazy, Mick. I mean, you are, but not from the PTSD. Fuck, you’d be crazy if you _weren’t_ fucked up from your life. But just because it’s never going away doesn’t mean it can’t get better. Look at me. I’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, because he’s proud of Ian for that, even if there’s still a part of him that’s a little bitter it all happened without him.

“You don’t just say, _I have PTSD_ and leave it at that, Mick. You keep going to therapy and you work on it. I know today was fucking awful for you. You were already worried about Svetlana and then we had to go into the police station and that set you off. I know that. So we work on it.”

“You got your own shit, though,” Mickey mumbles. “You can’t do your shit and my shit.”

“Mickey, you were doing my shit and your shit, before you knew it was PTSD,” Ian points out. “Just because they told you a name for it doesn’t mean it’s new. Right?”

“I guess.” Of fucking course not. Mickey’s been this fucked up for as long as he can remember.

“I’m not leaving, Mickey,” Ian says softly. “I bailed out when it was hard once. I’m not doing it again.”

Mikey’s got tears all down his cheeks now, snot running all nasty. He doesn’t even know when he started crying this hard. “Alright,” is all he can think to say.

Ian sniffs, laughing a little. “Oh, I’m glad that’s okay with you.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, swiping at his eyes.

“Whatever you say, babe,” Ian says. Mickey groans, wiping his nose on his shirt.

“You fucking suck,” he says, leaning in to kiss Ian.

“I love you, too.”

Mickey tips his head back against the seat and lets out a long breath. “So now what? You’re crazy and I’m crazy and now we gotta go deal with the crazy Russian?”

Ian shrugs. “At least we know how to handle crazy.”

“No, we fucking don’t,” Mickey points out. “We’re terrible at it.”

Ian shrugs again. “I guess that’s probably right,” he says, unbuckling and opening his door. “But we’re all she’s got, Mick. So let’s go.”

Mickey sighs. Sometimes, he thinks about what his life would be like if he’d never met Ian. Or if he’d just killed him like he said he was going to. Literally none of the last ten years would have happened in Mickey’s life. He wouldn’t be dealing with whatever shit his human trafficked Russian baby mama was bringing up. He wouldn’t have gone to prison for trying to kill Sammi. Sure, he would’ve ended up inside at some point, but not for attempted murder. Maybe he’d be able to see cops and just flip them off and sneer instead of falling to pieces. Maybe, if he found someone to date or at least fuck, there wouldn’t be whole days of their past together he couldn’t think about without needing to puke. He’d be able to smell that one cheap perfume Svetlana used to wear without needing to run away as fast as he could before all the memories could catch up to him from the smell.

But in all honesty, Mickey would be dead. He knows that for a fact. He would’ve still been hanging around his dad, and eventually he would’ve slipped up. He got extra careful when he and Ian first started running around together. And without Ian to worry about, Mickey would’ve gotten sloppy. His dad would’ve killed him, either for finding out Mickey loves cock or because a job would’ve gone bad. Or maybe Mickey would’ve just done it himself. He can see that happening way too easily. He used to think about it a lot, doing target practice or sharpening knives or just shaking out a pill from the house’s candy stash.

“Are you coming or what?” Ian asks. The sun is shining off his bright red fucking hair, and he’s standing there all grown up and broad-shouldered. He’s still in his uniform. They’ve got a house in there, complete with human trafficked Russian baby mama. They have this life. The kid’s going to come running around with that ugly fucking cat when he gets home. When Mickey goes to sleep tonight, he’s going to have Ian’s arms around him to help him feel safe and actually sleep. He gets kisses and hugs and teasing laughter and screaming matches and Ian’s hand holding his.

Mickey gets out of the car. He wraps his arm around Ian’s waist, and they go inside together.

“Alright,” Mickey says when they sit down at the table across from Svetlana. “What the fuck’s going on?”

Svetlana’s smoking, which is already a sign she’s all fucked up, but especially because she’s smoking in the house. She’s been really strict on that since Mickey came back. She blows out a thick cloud of smoke.

“And don’t say it’s nothing,” Ian adds before she can say anything. “We know something’s going on, Lana. Talk to us.”

He reaches across the table and covers her hand with his. Mickey can see the emotions flitting across Svetlana’s face. She does a lot to hide her emotions, but Mickey’s known her a long time now.

“Zhenya is seven soon,” she says slowly. Then she just stops.

“Okay?” Mickey says. “And?” Ian gives him a look, so he must not sound nice enough. He wants to shrug at Ian. How’s he supposed to sound nice when he’s asking why the kid turning seven matters?

“Seven is age when my father…” Svetlana trails off and takes another long drag, eyes closed. “My father sold me.”

It takes a second for Mickey to figure out what she’s saying, but when he does, it slams into him like a train. “Your dad fucking sold you when you were _seven_?” He gasps. “You mean there were sick fucking pedos coming at you when you were—”

“No,” Svetlana cuts him off. “Was promise, more. He got money and told me I was real sold when I was woman.” Her English falls to shit when she’s upset. If this conversation gets much worse, they’re going to have to find someone to fucking translate for them.

Ian swallows hard. “So you grew up knowing you were someone’s…property.” He looks sick as he says it.

Svetlana nods. “Easier for girls when knowing before. Not surprise.”

Ian covers his eyes with his hands. “I don’t know if easy is the right word.”

Svetlana shrugs. “Less crying when buyer come to collect.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. “But it’s not like you’re going to sell the kid. So what’s that got to do with all this shit?”

The look Ian gives him is sharper than before. “Mickey.”

“I’m not—” Mickey licks his lips. “Hey, I’m not trying to be a dick. But I don’t fucking get it.”

“I am thinking about when I was seven,” Svetlana explains softly. “My father was bad before. With hitting and yelling. But when I was seven, he sold me. Big change. Even with hitting and yelling, never expect selling.”

“Oh,” Ian says. “You’re afraid you’re going to change now that Yev’s seven.” Svetlana shrugs again. Mickey still doesn’t get it. How could it be that big of a fucking change for him to sell her when he was already treating her like total shit before? Sure, it had to be a hell of a shock to find out you got sold, and Mickey wishes the dude were alive so Mickey could kick the shit out of him and kill him himself, but he doesn’t get why Svetlana’s going off the deep end now.

“You think some shit’s going to happen to the kid?” Mickey asks. He feels like he’s way behind in this conversation. “Look, fuck, I think your dad’s fucking scum, but I still don’t get why you’re going out and getting in bar fights over it _now_. You had the kid all this time and didn’t do shit. What gives?”

“Zhenya had no one else,” she says. “Now, you. Maybe is best I go.”

Mickey is completely floored. Who the fuck would think their kid would be better off with _Mickey_? Least of all the lady who regularly threatens to cut off people’s balls for even looking at him funny?

“What the fuck?” He asks, totally baffled. “You think, what, I’d do a better job without you here? _Me_? Remember the first time you left him with me and I fucking shook the kid and he ran away?”

“You are learning,” she cuts in. “You are better now.”

“That’s a low fucking bar,” Mickey tells her. He feels like he can’t get a full breath. She can’t seriously be saying this shit. “Come the fuck on. The kid cries for you when you’re in the fucking bathtub. He’s not gonna be fucking better off without you. I mean, shit. Imagine some dude comes in here trying to buy the kid and I said I was thinking about it. You’d slit my fucking throat. You’re not gonna let anything happen to that kid.”

“My father,” she starts, but Mickey cuts her off.

“Oh, we’re going by what our dads did, huh? Yeah, that counts me the fuck out again. My dad fucking broke my arm when I was the kid’s age. I spilled his beer and he broke my arm. He used to put cigarettes out on my fucking balls before they even dropped. He _fucked my goddamn sister_. Shit, you remember how we even ended up with the kid? You fucking kidding me? If anyone should be worried about turning into their fucking father, it’s me. I’m the one who should go. You all were doing better without me.”

“I wasn’t,” Ian finally speaks up. His voice is soft. “I really wasn’t, Mick.”

“Yevgeny was not,” Svetlana adds. “Could not read.”

“Fuck, you’d have found out about the glasses thing whether I was here or not. You’re his fucking mom, Svetlana. Not even like the moms I know around here—you actually give a fuck about him. You love that fucking kid and you protect him. He’s not better without you. You’re never going to fucking hurt him, no matter what. And half the time I’m only nice to him ‘cause I know you’ll rip my balls off if I don’t, so I’m really not better without you, either.”

Ian’s smiling at him now, like somehow in that horrible little speech Mickey said something good between spilling family secrets and bringing up the worst memories he has. He doesn’t know what Ian liked about all that. But Svetlana’s kind of smiling too, with tears in her eyes, so maybe it just takes reminding everyone you’re the worst person in the room for everyone else to feel better about themselves.

“Is hard,” Svetlana admits, voice shaking a little. “I am trying to be better. I am not wanting Zhenya to feel hurt or sad or scared.”

“None of us know what to do because all our parents were so shitty,” Ian says. Svetlana nods. Ian grabs her hand again. “Mickey’s right, though. You’ve done such a good job. Yevgeny’s a good kid. And he knows you love him. He knows you’d never let anything happen to him. We all do.”

Svetlana pulls her hand away from Ian and wipes her eyes. She puts out her cigarette and gets up to open the kitchen window. “Okay,” she says resolutely. “We all do better. No bar fights, no police.”

“No police,” Mickey echoes fervently. Svetlana pauses by his chair. She presses her hand to the top of Mickey’s head, which is kind of weird, but he lets her do it. She’s obviously had a pretty shitty few days. He suddenly remembers her talking about the bat under her bed and he swallows hard. He wonders how long it’s been since she’s felt safe. If she’s ever felt safe. If her dad fucking sold her when she was seven, she couldn’t have grown up with much security.

The thought chokes him for a second. It’s not just that he knows how that feeling, always sleeping with one eye open because you’re never sure what’s going to happen. It’s that he actually _cares_ that she’s had a shitty life, and he doesn’t want her feeling that way anymore. He gets being afraid to turn into your own father, but more than that, he doesn’t want her worried about some asshole coming around and treating her like that again. He’s probably more surprised than anyone else.

“Hey,” he says. “Uh. You know we—I mean, nothing’s gonna happen to you, either. I’m not gonna let anybody…you know. Hurt you. Or anything like that. Me and Ian, I mean, we’re here. Not just for the kid. For you, too. We’re…we’re a family, right? We’re gonna take care of each other.”

Her hand on top of his head kind of clenches for a second and he doesn’t get why she’d pull his hair when he just said something really fucking nice. But he looks up, annoyed and ready to tell her to fuck off, and he sees her face. She looks like somebody just broadsided her. Mickey knows, without her having to say anything, that no one has ever told her they’ll keep her safe. No one’s ever told her they were going to take care of her. It makes Mickey’s eyes burn a little.

Svetlana hugs him. Just reaches down and puts both arms around him and squeezes him tight. It makes him flinch at first, like unexpected hugs always do, but he holds still for a second and lets himself settle into it. It’s probably only the third time they’ve hugged in all the years they’ve known each other, and all three of those hugs probably came in the last year. Mickey doesn’t know if that’s weird or not. When she pulls back, she wipes at her eyes.

“Thank you, piece of shit ex-husband,” she says softly.

Mickey huffs. “Yeah, you’re welcome, you ruski whore.” She flicks his ear, which he thinks is pretty rude considering she was the one who started it, and then she kisses the top of his head and leans over to kiss Ian’s cheek, too.

“I go take shower,” she announces. “Still have blood on leg from bar fight.”

“Whoa, you got hurt?” Ian asks, all ready to spring into EMT action.

Svetlana grins devilishly. “No. Not my blood.”

Mickey cracks up laughing. Ian shakes his head, but he’s laughing, too. They watch Svetlana go down the hall. “I’m going to drag her with me to the crazy clinic next week,” Mickey decides.

“You can’t force her,” Ian reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah, she has to decide for herself.”

“No, I mean you literally can’t force her. She’d probably kill you. Just tell her you’re taking her somewhere else and show up there.”

Mickey laughs again. He knows Ian’s kidding, mostly, but it’s nice that Ian agrees with his assessment that Svetlana should be in therapy, too. Hell, Mickey doesn’t know anyone who _shouldn’t_. They should get some kind of family discount. If they went to a real therapist, like Ian. Ian leans closer to Mickey and rests their heads together. Mickey’s eyes slip closed. It’s been a long day. He’s tired. He wants to lie down with Ian and go to sleep.

“You know, Fiona’s definitely dealing with feeding Yev dinner right now. So we can probably leave him there for at least another hour.”

Mickey opens his eyes and snorts. “Is that part of us being better and taking care of the kid?”

Ian shrugs. “Hey, he’s getting fed, right? That’s already better than you got most of the time.”

Mickey huffs and leans in to kiss Ian. “Well, there you go. We’re already ahead of the game.”

“Mm,” Ian says, hanging onto Mickey so he doesn’t pull back from the kisses. “And I can think of something we could do in that hour.”

“Yeah?” Mickey breathes against his lips. “I think you have good ideas.”

“I have great ideas.”

 

“Hang on,” Mandy says, sunglasses pushed up on the top of her head like she’s some fucking mini-van driving old lady. “Are you saying not only do I have to sit through this little kid birthday party, I have to go to some kindergarten graduation? What the fuck is that?”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Ian says. He juts his chin over at Yevgeny, who’s counting presents with his friends. “You just have to tell him you’re leaving before his graduation.”

“Or I could just leave and let you deal with it,” Mandy points out.

“You wouldn’t,” Ian says placidly, leaning over to steal a forkful of her cake. Mandy screeches and shoves him hard enough that Ian’s shitty little camping chair folds up around him and he yelps.

“Ay,” Mickey barks. “Fucking simmer down. It’s a kid’s party.”

“Dad!” Yevgeny yells from the present table. “No fuck at the party!”

Some of the other parents gasp, but this is a South Side school full of South Siders. No one’s too scandalized at a seven-year-old yelling _fuck_. Most of the adults gathered around laugh.

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey calls back. “You got me.” He rolls his eyes and goes back to his cake. “Fucking kids.”

“Where is piñata?” Svetlana asks. “I told him five minutes.”

Mickey groans. “We really doing the piñata shit?”

“Mickey, you get to hit an animal with a bat and candy falls out. I don’t see why you, of all people, would be opposed,” Ian points out.

“’Cause I don’t fucking get any,” Mickey shoots back indignantly. “It’s all for the kids or whatever bullshit.”

“Mickey, didn’t you buy the candy?” Lip asks. “So didn’t you just save some for yourself?”

“He ate like a whole bag,” Ian rats him out. “He had to go back and buy more at work this morning.”

“You don’t keep my fucking secrets, huh?” Mickey growls, flicking little pieces of cake at Ian. “What the hell, man? If anyone has to keep my secrets it’s my goddamn—” He stops himself, because he never knows what to call Ian.

“Your what?” Mandy presses with a smirk. Fucking Mandy. Why’d they even invite her?

“His ghetto husband,” V supplies. Kev’s sitting on the grass at her feet and every so often she leans down and feeds him a bite of cake. It’s fucking gross.

“Okay, everybody leave Mickey alone,” Ian says. He must feel guilty for telling everyone about Mickey’s candy stealing.

“My _babe_ ,” Mickey shoots out, because it’s summertime and the sky is clear blue and they’re sitting around eating cake and drinking beer and Ian’s got his hand resting on Mickey’s leg and Mickey feels _good_. It might all turn to shit before the day ends, but right now Mickey’s not thinking about that. Not too much, anyway. He’s not sitting in a corner where he can keep an eye on every single person who walks up. He’s not twitching whenever someone walks behind him. He’s not noticing every person who looks at him. He’s reminding himself Ian—and Svetlana, and Mandy, and everyone here, really—has his back. It’s not like Svetlana returned his promise not to let anything happen to her, but saying it out loud made Mickey realize they’ve all kind of tacitly agreed to that for each other.

“Your _what_?” Mandy shrieks with laughter. Mickey flips her off. Her laughter only brings him down a tiny bit. The smile lighting up Ian’s face brings him right back up.

“No, Mickey, Ian’s your _bae_ ,” Carl cuts in. “That’s what people say now.”

“What the fuck’s the difference?” Mickey asks. He genuinely didn’t hear any difference in those two words, but he’s spent a lifetime shooting guns and getting smacked around, so maybe his hearing’s shot to hell.

“Not _babe_ , but _bae_ , B-A-E,” Debbie explains. “It used to be an acronym. It means before anyone else.”

Mickey can feel his face scrunching up the same way the kid’s does. “That sounds pretty fucking stupid.” He’s also not completely sure he knows what the fuck an acronym is.

“Is how you treat him,” Svetlana points out.

“Alright,” Mickey says. “I think we’ve had enough of that.”

Everybody laughs at him, but it’s not bad laughing. It’s okay. Ian leans closer and presses his face into Mickey’s neck. His hair tickles Mickey’s chin. “You’re _my_ bae,” Ian promises, voice all silly. The word sounds absolutely ridiculous in his mouth, and Mickey can’t even imagine how stupid _he’d_ sound if he tried it. He just snorts.

“Sure, ‘cause all your geriatric cum guzzlers died off.”

Ian huffs, but he’s laughing. “You’re so fucking rude.”

“Well, too bad, you’re stuck with me,” Mickey reminds him.

Ian moves back to his own chair, but he props his chin on his hand and gives Mickey an exaggeratedly dopy smile. “I guess I can live with that.”

“Are you guys going to fuck right here at a kid’s party?” Kev interrupts. “Because that would be pretty fucked up.”

“Jesus, Kev, don’t be fucking sick,” Mickey snaps.

“Ah, let them be lovey dovey,” Fiona says, a little wistfully. Mickey wonders how long it’s been since she’s had anyone to bang. Or love, or whatever. She can probably find dudes to bang whenever she wants. Luckily, they’re saved by one of Kev and V’s twins—Mickey can’t fucking tell them apart, no matter how many times everyone tells him how—putting her hands on her little hips and demanding,

“Are we gonna have a piñata or not?”

“Kev,” Mickey says, untangling himself from Ian. “You gotta hold the thing up.” It came with a string and apparently you’re supposed to tie it to something high up. They don’t have anything to tie it to, but luckily Kev’s seven fucking feet tall.

Kev groans, but he stands up, too. “If I get hit in the balls, I’m dropkicking the kid out of this yard.”

Mickey shrugs as they head inside to grab the stupid mountain lion piñata. “Fine by me. Your kids are most likely to do it.”

The kids go fucking nuts for the piñata. They’re smacking that thing like it called them a fag and spit on them. And then when it cracks open and spills its candy guts all over the ground, the kids rush in so ruthlessly to get candy that two kids smack their heads together and about fifty of them end up bawling their eyes out.

Yevgeny, holding the bulk of the candy with his glasses hanging crooked on his face after the scuffle, doesn’t look too concerned with the crying. He holds up a Tootsie Roll to Mickey.

“Dad, you can have this.”

“Thanks, kid,” Mickey says, even though he’s going to stick it back in the kid’s little party bag and swap it for a Snickers the second the kid looks away. It’s nice that he offered. He’s a nice little kid. Mickey realizes, with a weird little thump in his chest, that he’s proud of that. “You having a good birthday?” He checks. Maybe Mickey’s feeling a little insecure about it. He’s been saying for weeks he didn’t care if the kid liked it or not, since he’s a kid and it’s not like birthdays really matter. But he was lying, and he’s pretty sure everyone knows it. Mickey gives a shit if the kid’s happy. He gives a lot of shits, actually.

“Yeah!” Yevgeny says excitedly. “Dad, it’s so fun! And look!” He drops the bag of candy like it’s nothing and Liam swoops in to grab a few pieces. He glances at Mickey like Mickey’s going to yell at him and Mickey just shrugs. Mickey doesn’t give a shit. The kid doesn’t need to eat that entire fucking bag of candy. He’ll be puking everywhere and Mickey’s sick of puke. Yevgeny picks up that ugly, skinny cat and Mickey winces. “Sasha came to my party, too!”

“You gotta pick him up?” Mickey complains. “Probably got fleas.”

“He doesn’t,” Yevgeny says, all offended.

“Why you like that cat so much?” Mickey asks. He hates the thing.

Yevgeny shrugs. “Other people were mean to him and don’t want to feed him. They think he’s not a good cat. But that’s not fair. He needs food!”

“He’s not a good cat,” Mickey counters. “He fucking scratched me when I gave him food.”

Yevgeny looks down at the thing. The cat’s not moving a muscle even though the kid’s practically got it in a stranglehold. “Well, he’s nice to me,” Yevgeny points out, and that’s actually really true. He’s the only person that devil cat seems to like, or at least tolerate. “He’s like you, Dad.”

“What?” Mickey asks, ready to be pissed off if the kid’s implying he has fleas. Mickey hasn’t had fleas in at least fifteen years.

“People are mean to him and sometimes he’s mean back. But really he’s nice if you’re nice to him first.”

Mickey can’t say anything. How does a fucking six-year-old—no, seven-year-old, as of today—look at a fucking ugly demon cat and make the connection to his fucked up, PTSD-ridden dad? Mickey never would’ve thought of that in a million years. Maybe Yevgeny’s going to be a shrink someday. He’d be the first shrink Mickey likes.

“Whatever,” Mickey says, trying not to sound like he’s on the verge of tears. “Happy birthday, kid.”

“Thanks, Dad.” The kid tips his head back and smiles at Mickey and Mickey wants to cry without fully understanding why. He just feels kind of overwhelmed, but not in a bad way. The shrinks at the clinic would probably want him to sit down and think about his shit and figure out what he’s feeling, but fuck that. He knows the feeling isn’t bad, and that’s all he cares about. He gives the kid a little squeeze and heads back to his chair. If he’s going to be feeling all this shit, he needs a beer.

 

“They got fucking robes and hats?” Mandy asks, nonplussed. It doesn’t stop her from taking about a thousand pictures on her phone, though.

“It’s kind of adorable,” Fiona points out.

“Sure, but it’s still dumb as shit,” Mickey shoots back. He knows his voice sounds off. Sitting there, looking at Yevgeny’s dark hair covered in a graduation hat, seeing his little hands clasped seriously in his lap, is making Mickey’s heart squeeze. He’s been against this kindergarten graduation thing from the second he found out about it, but seeing it is a different story.

That’s his kid up there. His kid finished kindergarten. And yeah, okay, like it’s a big fucking deal to pass coloring. Still. Mickey’s determined this won’t be the only graduation Yevgeny has, and Svetlana and Ian are on his side for that. But just knowing they did this—this normal thing, this thing all the other families are doing, this thing Yevgeny is excited about—is putting a lump in Mickey’s throat.

Yevgeny sits very still as he waits his turn to run up the stairs onto the stage and get some piece of paper that probably just has a giant fucking smiley face on it. He claps politely for his little friends who are before him in the alphabet.

And then Ms. Thompson says, “Yevgeny Milkovich.” She _still_ can’t fucking say it right, but it doesn’t matter because it’s the last time she’ll have to say it. The kid gets up and straightens his tiny little graduation robe and takes his time going up the stairs. He doesn’t trip like that Mikey DeLuca kid. He shakes Ms. Thompson’s hand and accepts his little fake diploma graciously. And then he’s walking back down the other set of stairs. He looks over his family, a group taking up two full rows of these shitty, uncomfortable chairs, and he smiles.

His Coke-bottle glasses make his eyes look huge and his bottom tooth finally fell out. He gives them all a little wave and Mickey’s suddenly got tears in his eyes threatening to spill down his cheeks. He’s got Svetlana on one side and Ian on the other, and they both grab his hands. This is their kid. It doesn’t make sense, the gap-toothed four-eyes with three parents without a healthy relationship between them for the vast majority of their lives. He was a mistake, technically, and there are no happy memories surrounding his conception or a lot of his early life. His very existence drudges up a shit-ton of complicated feelings for everyone and Mickey can’t even connect him to that day in the house when Terry walked in on him and Ian or he’ll start screaming.

But there he is. He can sort of read and he’s polite and he’s kind of a little asshole when he wants to be, but he also gives hugs openly and freely and sleeps like a rock without being afraid something’s going to happen to him. They did that. They’re _doing_ that. All three of them are fucked up three ways to Sunday, and Mickey can understand now that they didn’t deserve the things that happened to them. Svetlana didn’t deserve to be sold like property and mistreated by man after man, starting with her own dad and definitely including Mickey himself, for the short farce of their marriage. Ian didn’t deserve to be hated by his own father and live with that his whole life, he didn’t deserve the genes he ended up getting, the fight he has to have with his own brain every single day, and he certainly didn’t deserve to fall in love with someone as fucked up as Mickey. Mickey can even admit, sometimes, that he didn’t deserve to be beat on his whole life by his dad and he didn’t deserve to finally have the one bit of happiness he’d grabbed onto ripped away by cops and a public defender who stopped listening after they heard his last name and bipolar disorder itself. But they’re all here now. They’re working on it. They’re broken and some of those hurts are never going to heal, but they’re limping along and holding that kid up, because Yevgeny sure as hell doesn’t deserve anything less.

Svetlana squeezes Mickey’s hand so hard it hurts a little. He squeezes back without looking at her, and he squeezes Ian’s hand, too. Maybe he’ll change his mind about this later; he doesn’t know. But right this second, looking at his son giggling with his friends and throwing his little cardboard hat up in the air, Mickey thinks he can handle all the bad shit in his life for this kind of thing. He can wake up sweating and gasping when he has Ian at his side making him feel better and knowing he’ll have breakfast with Yevgeny. He can look at Svetlana and remember the choking smell of her perfume all around him and the blood and tears in his eyes when he gets to hear her snort and tease Yevgeny gently about being one of the shortest kids in class and actually laugh out loud at something she thinks is funny. He can cry his way through shitty therapy sessions if it means he can sit here in this suffocating gym with his hands only shaking a little.

Mickey can count on one hands the number of times he sat back and felt _happy_. Just happy, not scared or angry or sad. Happy without wondering how long it would last or what was going to happen to fuck it up. Right now, that’s how he feels. He doesn’t care that he looks like a fucking weirdo crying at a kindergarten graduation. He doesn’t care that their disjointed family unit attracts looks all the time and people can’t figure out how all these patchwork people fit together. They know how they do, and that’s what he cares about.

“Dad!” Yevgeny yells as he runs over to them as soon as it’s over. “Did you see me? I graduated!”

“You sure did, little man,” Mickey says, trying not to sound too choked up. “You did great.”

Yevgeny preens. “And everybody saw me.”

Svetlana says something to him in Russian and bends down to kiss his face about six million times. The kid is way politer than Mickey, because he just lets her do it and doesn’t squirm away or complain or anything.

“You’re all grown up now, huh?” Ian teases. “You ready to go get a job?”

Yevgeny cracks up laughing. “I’m just a kid!”

“But you graduated!”

“No, Ian, just kindergarten,” Yevgeny explains. He pushes his glasses up and leans against Mickey’s legs. “Dad?” He says, tipping his head back and looking at Mickey upside-down.

“What’s up, kindergarten graduate?” Mickey asks, ruffling a hand through Yevgeny’s hair.

“Can we get ice cream?” Yevgeny punctuates this by clasping his hands together under his chin. “Pretty please?” He adds.

“Hmm.” Mickey pretends to think this over. “What’s your mom think?”

Yevgeny turns to Svetlana. “Please, Mama?”

“I think yes,” Svetlana decides. Yevgeny pumps the air.

“Well, what about Ian?” Mickey asks. “What’s he say?”

“Ian!” Yevgeny gives him a little puppy-dog lip. Ian can’t even hold back his smile.

“I definitely think Yev deserves some ice cream today.”

Yevgeny cheers. “Is that yes, Dad?” He checks.

Mickey crouches down and wraps Yevgeny up in his arms. The kid just goes, no hesitation and no questioning. He’s not suspicious of someone hugging him because they’re going to want something in return later. He’s not afraid to be that close to Mickey. Mickey’s tearing up again. He presses his cheek against the top of Yevgeny’s little head and takes a shaky, deep breath. He doesn’t know why he’s getting so fucking emotional over all of this. He just knows it’s hitting him hard. They’re a family. For real. It took a long time for them to get here, to build this family, but they did. They’re strong.

“Yeah,” Mickey finally says. “If my son wants ice cream, he’s getting ice cream.”

“Really?” Yevgeny asks delightedly. “Whenever I want?”

It makes Mickey laugh wetly. “Fuck, don’t push it, kid,” he admonishes. “Maybe not every time.”

“But maybe,” Yevgeny says gleefully. “Hey, Liam, Aunt Mandy, we’re getting ice cream!” He skips off and leaves Mickey, Ian, and Svetlana in his wake.

“He is good boy,” Svetlana says softly.

“He has good parents,” Ian says, putting an arm around both of them and squeezing.

“That means you, too,” Mickey tells him, and Ian ducks his head, pleased about it. Mickey snakes his arm around Ian’s waist and pulls him in close. He watches Yevgeny running around excitedly, standing here with Ian and Svetlana and looking at the rest of their family over there, and he lets out a breath, feeling like a weight just lifted off his chest. He sniffs a little, and then he looks at Ian. Ian’s smiling at him, all those freckles like Mickey remembers from being dumb kids getting their hearts broken by the fucking world itself, and Mickey licks his lips and kisses Ian right there in the elementary school gym because he _can_ , because he _wants to_. He’s not terrified someone’s going to come beat his face in for it. But even if they did, he can take them. He’s got plenty of backup.

“Come on,” Mickey says softly to Ian and Svetlana. “Let’s go get our kid.”

Mickey holds onto his family, and they walk off together without looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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